Past sorrow
by lovesdaryl
Summary: Daryl feels guilty after mistaking Hershel for his abusive father while being treated by him, and tries to find a way to apologize.
1. Past regrets

"May I help you with that?"

Daryl looked up as if slapped at Hershel's words. The old vet was standing in the open door of his cell, holding back the curtain with one hand and smiling at him. "'m good, I got it, thanks", he mumbled, blushing. He wanted to kick himself for not paying attention at all - it could have been anyone approaching his cell, and he was sitting here shirtless.

"May I come in for a house call?" Hershel persisted, still smiling.

Of course, even though he was embarrassed as fuck, Daryl would never deny him that and nodded. He started gnawing on the inside of his upper lip. "Mind if I continue here?" he asked, his cheeks and ears growing warm. "'d like ta finish this so I c'n get dressed again."

"Please, not at all, I _was_ going to help if you'd let me."

Daryl turned his attention back to what had had him so engrossed that he hadn't noticed Hershel coming up to his cell, crutches and all. Holding the fresh dressing in place over the ugly, stitched-up five inch gash in his side with the stitches still in and the dark, messy scab still sticking to the wound, he slid the end of the bandage under two equally banged-up fingers to hold it down and started winding it around his waist again. He felt comfortable enough sitting here like this with Hershel but wanted nobody else to see him like this.

Hershel in turn kept his eyes on him, but Daryl knew he wasn't staring or curious but concerned about him as his patient and his friend. When the bandage roll in Daryl's hand had shrunk to roughly half its original size Hershel cleared his throat. Jeez, people would start flocking in here just to check in on his doctor if he kept producing noise like this. "How's the pain?" Hershel asked softly.

Daryl looked up at this, his eyes meeting Hershel's and holding them for what felt like forever. "'s okay, I can manage", Daryl mumbled, and once again felt himself blushing. Hershel was onto him.

"You were supposed to take pain medication for at least one full week. That bottle was too small for a full week, but you haven't come for more." Fuck, the old man sounded disappointed. Daryl's heart sank.

"Ya know I'm not into that shit. Merle was." Tasting blood, Daryl stopped his gnawing and started sucking on his lip instead. "'sides, it's not too bad. I've had worse, don't need that shit."

"May I sit?" Hershel asked, nodding at Daryl's cot.

"Course, no need ta ask", Daryl mumbled. He smoothed the self-adhesive end of the bandage over his side, getting it to stick, and reached out for his shirt which was draped over his pillow, ready to slip into. Stretching hurt his broken ribs, but he managed to limit himself to a grunt which could have meant anything.

Leaning toward him, Hershel all but whispered: "May I?" His hand was raised and hovering just shy of Daryl's left side which displayed rainbow colors from the blue end of the spectrum, with a nearly black area centered over the actual fractures. Daryl could all but feel his skin puckering at the imminent touch, but this was Hershel. He nodded twice, his head turned sideways, his eyes firmly on the edge of his cot and his equally discolored left leg, and braced himself.

As Hershels fingertips brushed across his bruised side, gently seeking out his broken ribs under the skin, he stiffened and held his breath. It wasn't that Hershel's touch was hurting him that badly. No, it was being touched at all, by anyone, after getting hurt like this. After having someone put his hands on him again to cause him harm.

Two days after the run gone so wrong, Carol had told him about the shit that had gone down when Hershel had tried to patch him up in his cell. How he'd made himself look like the world's biggest asshole by thinking Hershel was his dad who had made him hurt like this and was still out for more. How he'd remembered getting beaten and thrown through a window, but not by the goons who had jumped them in that warehouse but by his dad who had probably died long ago, but surely around the Turn at the latest because he would have been drunk out of his fucking mind when meeting his very first walker.

He was still burning with shame just thinking of it. Hershel had never mentioned it when changing his dressings and bandages and regularly checking his cracked collarbone and mistreated joints on his injured left side, but Daryl just knew he had to be disappointed in him.

When checking his bolt wound the day after he'd shot himself, always careful to give Daryl advance warning before touching him and giving him space to move away from his touch when he needed to, Hershel had hinted that he'd received similar treatment, if not quite as prolonged and as violent, as a child.

Mistaking him for his father, imagining that he was reaching out for him to hurt him even more, even while delirious with blood loss, shock and pain, had to have hurt him deeply. Daryl couldn't imagine that he'd ever be able to make up for so grossly insulting a man he admired, a man who'd shown him nothing but kindness and caring ever since he'd met him.

"Does breathing still hurt?" Hershel asked gently, withdrawing his hand. Daryl relaxed slightly and looked to his left, his eyes still down, looking at the gray cement floor and his worn boots now. He just didn't have it in him to meet Hershel's eyes. They'd both been right. He was a damn pussy. His breath hitched in his throat as he found himself thinking of them.

"'s gettin' better", he mumbled. "Can I ... Need ta ..." His good hand went first to the gash in his side and then up to the long, dark old scar running down and across his right collarbone, betraying his need to cover not new but old injuries. As he was still looking down, way too ashamed of himself to even glance at Hershel's face, he missed the look of warm compassion there.

"Of course", Hershel said, his voice almost ... gentle, as if he were talking to a frightened child - which he was, in so many unspoken ways. "But, Daryl?" He waited for the hunter to raise his head slightly, even though he still wasn't anywhere close to meeting his eyes. "Taking your pain medication is not the same as getting drugged out if your mind, and you should know that. When you're in pain your body tenses up to minimize it, and that just makes it worse and you take longer to heal."

He knew that what he was about to say next would hit Daryl where it hurt, so he paused briefly to give him some time to prepare for the blow. When he finally continued, he allowed all of his compassion and care for the younger man to bleed into his voice for once. "We're your friends, Daryl. We care for you, and it hurts us to see you like this. Will you take what the doctor ordered, please?"

Daryl's breath hitched in his throat at this and he blushed fiercely now. He didn't deserve this. He was a piece of shit who had thought Hershel was going to pull his belt on him and on Carol. If Hershel knew for whom he'd taken him ...

Hershel was getting up from his cot. Fumbling, Daryl reached out to help him up, but the old man was already standing again. Damn, he was too slow and stupid for even the most basic shit. His face felt as if it were on fire, and with his blood pounding in his ears he could actually feel all his bruises thrumming in time with his frantic heartbeat.

He reached for his shirt again and quickly put it on, his hands shaking. Rasing his left arm like that still hurt like fuck and he briefly glanced at his left shoulder. The bruise there extended well down his arm and halfway across his chest and back, just like those at his wrist, hip and knee extended a good ways above and below the joints themselves which were all still jarred out of whack from hitting the ground on his left side after falling from the second floor of that damn warehouse.

Seeing him wince in pain, Hershel stopped turning around toward the cell door and asked softly: "You're still sure about the arm? Your collarbone and maybe even your ribs would heal faster, and you'd be in less pain."

"Ain't not gonna wear no damn sling", Daryl almost growled. "'ve had worse without being looked after, 's gonna be okay. Ain't no fuckin' freak show." Still, he reached for his pants with his good arm as Hershel pulled aside the curtain to leave. Hastily, making it sound like an afterthought, as if it didn't matter to him at all, Daryl asked: "C'n I take watch up in the tower again? 'm drowning in people in here. Won't go down to the fence or use the crossbow, neither." As if he had a fucking choice. He wouldn't be able to load the damn thing right now anyway.

Seeing an opening, Hershel looked back over his shoulder. "You can, if you collect your pain medication and actually take it - instead of throwing it out the window." He'd definitely hit a nerve, he saw. Daryl's face was all but glowing from the blush spreading across it. "You come to the warden's room to get it, and take the first two right there - and I'll tell Rick you're cleared for the watch tower."

Defeated, Daryl hung his head and nodded, his long hair falling over his face. He mumbled something as Hershel was stepping through the door and out of his cell. "What was that?"

"Said thank you. 'preciate it."

Smiling slightly to himself, Hershel made his slow and careful way down the stairs, leaving Daryl alone.


	2. Past demons

After roughly an hour up on the watch tower he finally started to relax.

As Hershel had told him, once he'd gotten dressed in his usual sleeveless shirt - people had learned the hard way not to ask about the bruises and cuts on his arm and hand, which were the only ones they saw, apart from his fucked-up face -, torn up pants and worn boots, he'd all but crawled down the stairs and made his way down the hallway. He'd gotten a new bottle of pills from Hershel and, also as he'd been told, taken the first two then and there, swallowing them with a mouthful of water and sarcastically opening his mouth afterward to prove that he had, in fact, swallowed them. To his credit, he had blushed crimson at once at the pettiness of this.

Next, Hershel had asked about how painful walking down here had been and Daryl had brushed him off even as he'd steadied himself against the table in the center of the room to get some of his weight off his left leg. He'd answered questions such as had he been sleeping at night and had he eaten regularly. Of course, Carol had seen to the latter, bringing food up to his cell so he wouldn't have to come down, as well as making sure he actually ate it.

Sleep was another matter entirely.

Sleep had been eluding him ever since he'd had the shit beaten out of him in that warehouse before getting thrown through an intact window on the second floor overlooking the employee parking lot.

It wasn't the pain so much, not anymore. He was healing, albeit slowly. His bruises were fading, and he was no longer coughing and pissing blood. Although he was still limping and it still hurt like hell to lift his bad arm, he'd started to notice improvements. He could bend his knee again without flinching. At night, before not falling asleep, he was able to lie on his left side for a few minutes before he had to roll over onto his back again.

No.

Pain he could deal with. Had dealt with it all his life.

It was the memory of hands on his body, unfriendly hands, not those of Hershel or Rick.

Not those of Carol.

Hands that weren't touching him in an effort to heal or comfort, but to harm him. To keep him from getting away, keep him from fighting back. To cause him pain.

Every time he closed his eyes he could feel them. Pinning his arms to his sides, holding them down, taking his crossbow and his knife. Rendering him defenseless. One set of hands holding him down for another set to beat and pummel him, for a set of feet to kick him. To ultimately get picked off the floor and be thrown through a window.

He had felt humiliated. Frightened. Helpless. Nine years old.

Alone, even though his friends, members of his new family, were fighting by his side, trying to help him. At the end, they had managed to kill the two sons of bitches that had kicked and beaten him. But not even winning mDe any difference.

Staring out into the darkness, the rifle held loosely in his arms, he saw a door opening as he lay in his bed, trying to sleep. His Mom had been gone for three weeks, nothing remaining of her but little pieces of bone and a few handfuls of fine ashes. The fire had been hot enough to destroy her to the same degree as cremating her would have. They had no idea if they had buried all of her, or how much had been missing, or if they'd buried some of the bed with her.

They were staying with an uncle in town who had offered his spare bedroom. He had told them how sorry he was. He had not been sorry enough, however, to be there for her funeral. And he was not sorry enough to try and stop their dad, his brother, from charging into his spare bedroom every single night to rip one of his sleeping sons out of the bed they were sharing, yell at him, shake him, beat and kick him, whip him with his belt and finally throw him onto the bed again like a used rag, yelling all the while how they didn't deserve their Momma, how they hadn't been there for her, how they'd allowed her to kill herself with her boozing and smoking.

His dad came in, saw Daryl lying at the front edge of the bed, within reach, and grabbed him by the neck. Yanking him up, he whipped his belt out of his pants and wrapped the end around his hand. Pulling up Daryl's tee, he dragged him out into the hallway and away from their room so Daryl's cries and the sound of the belt striking him wouldn't wake Merle. Not because he wanted to spare Merle, but because Merle would interfere and be a general pain in the ass until he'd kicked him away often enough so he'd stay away until he was done with Daryl.

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, his chest constricting, and shook his head ever so slightly. This was going nowhere. Even being up here, alone, away from people, got him only so far. He knew even now, at the start of his watch, that he would remain as sleepless this night as he'd been the eight nights before because the movie that had started in his head would continue mercilessly once he was back in his cell, on his cot, feeling those hands again as soon as he closed his eyes.

And not just ot the hands of one week ago, either.

But the hands that had beaten him nearly to death again and again decades ago.

He rubbed his left hand over his right collarbone, tracing the scar there. Feeling the knotted tissue, feeling the gnarled inner edge sliding over the healed bone under it, remembering the pain of that long-ago night. Reliving the fury and hate at the monster doing this to him, and at himself for not fighting back. At his mom for leaving him in this mess. At Merle for sleeping through it.

Reliving the fear of a week before when it had felt like the monster was back.

He managed to breathe, managed to pull himself back into the present.

That was when he heard the footsteps coming up the stairs.

His first impulse was to look about himself for a place to hide, but of course, this being the watchtower, there was no such place here. Next, he stared at the door with wide, frightened eyes, looking for a key, a bolt, any means of locking the door.

There was a knock, a soft voice.

"Daryl, it's me. I can't sleep, and Rick mentioned at dinner that you'd be on watch tonight. Would you keep me company?"

His overactive imagination supplied an image of the rank, viscous fluid that was his fear and anxiety leaking out through his feet, leaving him literally drained and empty.

Carol.

"Course", he answered, relief bleeding into his voice. "Door's open."

A moment later, it did open and she came in, wrapped tightly in a woolen jacket that looked handknit, except nobody had time for this shit any longer. Maybe she'd found it, maybe someone had brought it from a run. He didn't know. Shit like that didn't matter to him. All he knew was that she looked beautiful in the dim light inside the tower and that looking at her instantly made him feel light and free.

She joined him at the railing and looked out over the prison yard and toward the sanctuary of the woods, beyond his reach. Then, with a look up at the sky covered in racing clouds, with a sliver of moon visible every now and then, she whispered: "These are the moments I love about this new world."

He looked at her, surprised. This was unexpected.

Picking up on his astonishment, she elaborated: "Before all this, it was never quiet. There was always some noise to distract you from what you were doing, thinking, feeling. I really enjoy the quiet now."

There was nothing he really could say to that, so he waited. She rewarded him for his patience a few minutes later, continuing her train of thought. "Before, when there was something you needed to work out, there were dozens of excuses for not doing it. Hundreds of things to occupy your time and procrastinate. We don't have that luxury any more. Every day might be our last, and that makes every moment of every day so precious."

This was something he could support wholeheartedly, so he nodded, still not speaking.

Not expecting him to talk, she went on. "But of course you also have much more time to focus on the bad things that keep happening to good people", she sighed. He stiffened besider her. Lots of bad shit had happened to lots of good people recently. People had fucking died.

Her soft voice anchored him again before he could drown in his failures and losses once more as she continued. "That's why it's so important to focus on what we have, not just on what we've lost. On what we've achieved, not just our failures. And why we have to make sure that we're on the level with the people around us."

Her eyes, as she turned her head to fully face him, shone with joy - and something else. "This helped me so much when you were injured last week", she whispered, her hand brushing the back pocket of her dungarees. "I really don't know what I would have done, how I could have gone on, without it. Thank you so much for writing it." He realized, belatedly, that her eyes had been shining with tears as one of them spilled down over her left cheek.

His lips went dry. This was one of the rare instances when he was pretty certain what he was supposed to do. Hesitantly, his eyes never leaving hers, he brought his right hand up to brush his thumb up over her cheekbone, catching the tear as it rolled down and wiping it away, desperately hoping that she wouldn't notice that he was trembling like a leaf. This was the first time ever that he was doing this, and he hoped he hadn't made the wrong call. "'s good then", he mumbled.

Once his watch was over, just an hour later, a much calmer Daryl made his way to the infirmary. Spending the rest of his watch standing silently beside her had given him the safe haven he had needed to think about what had happened in his cell a week before. He needed to get his head out of his ass and talk to the old man. Avoiding him forever wouldn't solve shit, and he'd just continue to feel bad. Like Carol had said, every day might be their last and he would not risk losing a good friend over his shitty behavior.

And maybe, just maybe, being alone with Carol for two hours straight would keep his demons at bay just this once.

Maybe, tonight, he'd be able to sleep.


	3. Past grievance

Hershel was covering the instrument tray he had prepared with a sterile dishcloth to place it in the shelf where he kept half a dozen of them ready for use, when he heard a small noise from the door – a shuffling of feet, the scuffing of a boot against the worn cement of the floor, the tapping of a fingernail against the bars of the door. Right away, without turning to look, he knew who had come to see him.

He knew how much he had been struggling with what had happened, that it was weighing him down, and that he had been feeling terrible because he felt he had somehow wronged him. Yet he also knew that there was absolutely no way that he could have stopped or even influenced what had happened to him. His mind had run away with him to the darkest places of his memory, freely mixing past and present, messing with him and hurting him at a time when he was utterly defenseless.

Slowly, giving his visitor another moment to compose and prepare himself, he turned around to face him.

"Son", he said warmly, "how are you feeling? You are coming off watch, aren't you?"

Daryl had been looking straight ahead at the filing cabinet opposite the door he was standing in, avoiding Hershel's eyes but at least not hiding his face behind his hair the way he had in his cell earlier. He seemed calmer, more relaxed than he had before, which Hershel attributed to the time he'd spent alone on watch. He still had circles under his eyes, but they were less pronounced and he looked less haggard.

At the older man's kind greeting, however, he immediately tensed up and lowered his head again, looking down at the floor, his cheeks and ears turning red. "'m good, thanks", he mumbled, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the constant background drone of the prison, subdued as it was at this hour.

"What brings you to me so late? Shouldn't you go rest? Have you eaten?"

"Yeah, Carol's brought me some of that veggie mush they made today? And some spices ta pep it up. Seems the old folks 'n' the kids don't like spicy, but I do, and she knows that." He actually sounded amazed, as if any of his habits and preferences could ever escape Carol. But in addition to his obvious gratitude, there was more discomfort – he was practically grinding the sole of his right boot into the floor at this point, probably over Carol having to bring him food – and food that he hadn't provided himself in the first place.

Hershel decided to save him.

"Is there anything I can do to help you sleep at night, Son?" Making his way to the table in the center of the room, he sat and placed his crutches on the floor next to his chair. Motioning to the chair opposite him, he invited Daryl to also take a seat and studiously looked away as the younger man limped toward the table.

"Nah, thanks, 'm good", Daryl repeated. He pulled his chair out to sit down with his left leg stretched out in front of him. As he'd seen earlier how discolored his leg still was, Hershel could sympathize with this, but still refrained from commenting. He knew that Daryl was uncomfortable enough as it was and didn't want to make him withdraw into his shell again.

"You havent't slept, have you?" Hershel's voice as he asked was soft and gentle, carefully avoiding any hint that Daryl might be responsible for that or indeed anything else that had happened during the past week ever since he'd been brought in – because he wasn't. In a sad repetition of a well-established pattern that Hershel had been observing since the disaster in front of his barn, he was holding himself accountable once more for things that had been beyond his control, and Hershel intended to set him straight about it. He hadn't known Daryl well enough at the farm to help him get over not finding Sophia - but he knew him now, better than most. He had no wish to watch the younger man continue to whip his own demons into tormenting him further. "Have you?"

Slowly, as if he was admitting to some huge, monstrous sin, instead of suffering from insomnia, Daryl nodded his head yes. His shoulders rose and fell with a breath heaved in and released. "I should, really, I know that", he mumbled. "I jus' … When I close my eyes, I …" He drew another shuddering breath, unable to continue.

Before Hershel could answer, though, he forced himself to go on. "And thinking last week that you … Carold told me … I didn't mean that! I know you'd never … But it wasn't you, it was …" His head jerked up and his burning eyes, full of anguish and self-loathing, drilled into Hershel's as he panted in remembered terror. "I thought it was him again, I thought … And Carol … There was no way I could protect her, and …"

Hershel's heart ached for him as he understood. Daryl had seen his dad threatening not only himself, but also Carol, whom he had recognized through the fog of illusion and pain and seen as a potential victim as well. One that, just like himself, he couldn't defend or protect because of the condition he was in. Because he'd allowed himself to get beaten. Again.

Looking up, he found Daryl gnawing on the skin of his thumb which looked raw already, his eyes averted, his arms cossed in front of his chest. Taking a deep breath, Hershel braced himself for the emotional pain this was going to cause.

"You know everything that I could possibly say to you", he began carefully. "You may act like a run of the mill redneck, but that doesn't mean that you are one. You know perfectly well that you're not responsible for what your mind conjured up while you were delirious and drugged. Right?"

His chest still heaving as if he'd just finished a marathon, Daryl nodded slowly, reluctantly.

"No matter what you might think of yourself, you're one of the bravest men I've known in my life", Hershel went on, his voice soothing Daryl's high-strung nerves in the same way that Carol's had up on that tower. "But sometimes, the decision isn't yours. Sometimes things happen that you can't control. And I am truly sad to see you beating yourself up like that over what happened."

Remarkably, Daryl managed to briefly meet Hershel's eyes as he answered. "But ... I though you were ... You would NEVER ..." His voice hitched in his throat and he looked disgusted with himself.

"See?" Hershel asked, smiling. "You know that I would not. And that is enough. When you're yourself, you know I would never hurt you or her. That's all I could ask for."

Daryl stared at him in disbelief. "But ... Don't it hurt you that I thought...?"

The old vet shook his head, looking down at his folded hands resting on the table. "Daryl", he all but whispered. "I know where you come from. And because I know that, I would never be angry at you for feeling threatened by a man looming over you while you're injured and unable to defend yourself." Daryl once more blushed crimson with shame, but Hershel resolutely shook his head.

"We can't be strong all the time. We can't be brave all the time. From time to time, something happens to make us feel weak and vulnerable and afraid, and we have to accept that challenge and deal with it." Raising his head to meet Daryl's disbelieving eyes, he went on, and it seemed to Daryl as if he were looking straight into his soul.

"I know, and I understand, and I have not been angry or hurt because of what happened for even a moment", Hershel said gently. "But every day when I see you taking care of these people, fighting for them, defending them, feeding them, I am humbled to know that, after all that you've been through, and despite being old enough to be your father, I have your trust and your friendship - the trust and friendship of a good man. It's more than I could ever ask from you."

Daryl's throat worked, but no sound came out. After what had to have been at least two full minutes, he placed his trembling hands flat on the table to push himself to his feet. Face crimson to the roots of his hair, he managed to look at Hershel who was smiling up at him. "Night", he mumbled.

Hershel nodded back at him. "Have a good night, Daryl."

The hunter nodded, and left.

Outside, in the empty hallway leading up to the stairs that would take him to his cell, he stopped to calm down and catch his breath.

He closed his eyes, felt Carol's hand cradling his own and her thumb ghosting over his, and smiled.


End file.
